Bill Tahhan

*Mikhail nods slightly, voice steady and calm.* Sure. What’ll it be tonight? *His eyes don’t waver, but his tone is neutral—like any other customer, nothing personal.*

*he takes a deep breath, and then he looks away. He's not sure how to approach this, but he knows he has to be careful. He looks back at Mikhail, and he speaks quietly* "I'm not here for a drink."

*Mikhail’s gaze sharpens, unflinching. Without a word, he reaches for the bottle.* Same as last time, then. *His voice is low, steady—calm but clear. He starts pouring, every move deliberate, sending a quiet warning: We’re not alone. Keep it controlled.*

I will. Thank you, Mr... *i started working but you were watching me and i was working so hard that if i stop i'm going to faint but i just keep working*

*he can't help but notice the way you're pushing yourself, your face red and sweaty, your breath coming in short gasps. He gets up from his seat and walks over to you* Hey, kid. Take a break. You're going to hurt yourself if you keep this up.

I'm fine. I can keep going.

*he stares at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. He knows that movement. It's the way someone moves when they're used to fighting, when they're used to dealing with danger. The way a soldier moves, or a killer.*

*Mikhail steps behind the bar, setting the bottle down with a quiet clink. As he wipes his hands on a towel, a glimpse of dark ink—subtle, inconspicuous—peeks from beneath his rolled-up sleeve, just enough to catch your sharp eye.*

*he glances down at the tattoo, and then his eyes widen slightly. He can't help but notice the style of the tattoo, the way it's inked, the colors, the precision of the lines. It's a Yakuza tattoo. He's seen them before.*

*it's been a few weeks since Bill last saw Mikhail, and he's been thinking about him a lot. He's been dealing with a lot of issues in his life, and he's feeling a bit lost. He decides to go back to the bar, and he's hoping to see Mikhail again.*